


Spit

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: House of Wax (2005)
Genre: F/M, Humiliation, Verbal Abuse, degredation, non-con, sex dungeon, spitting in mouth, spitting kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: Bo has a humiliation kink and you’re his new favourite toy - his ma never taught him it’s rude to spit.
Relationships: Bo Sinclair/Reader, Bo Sinclair/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	Spit

The mechanic’s handsome face twists into a grin of cruel triumph. You back up as far away as you can, but the basement wall proves as unyielding as the will of the man advancing on you. It’s been four days since he locked you away in this unforgiving dungeon, but the fear in your stomach stabs as fresh as though it were the first. His hands find your wrists, pinning you against the soiled mattress beneath, his firm body weighting you down at the hips. You had tried fighting back in the beginning, but lack of food and meagre water rations have left you wilted, your limbs sapped of any remaining strength.

One hand shackling both of yours together, his hard fingers find your jaw, squeezing tightly until your teeth bite into the softness of your cheek.

“Look at me,” he says. You can’t – you can’t look into that face again, not after everything he’s made you do. It’s too cruel that such beautiful features could conceal something so rotten. “I said _look at me_ ,” he growls, and you force yourself to meet his gaze.

Sky-blue eyes stare into yours, and he smiles with mocking glee. The flat of his palm strikes your cheek and you jerk to the side, tears forming as the stinging slap reddens your skin.

“Stupid fuckin’ bitch,” he sneers. “Should’ve gutted you days ago. Guess you’re just lucky your cunt feels so good, huh?”

He releases your face and deftly unbuckles his belt, one-handed. If the haunting polaroids pinned to the wall are any indication, he’s had more than just you to practice this routine on. You give little resistance as he knees your legs apart, your lack of underwear providing easy access to the service you’re expected to provide. You wonder dazedly where your panties went – did he keep them? Another twisted souvenir, symbolic of what else he’s taken from you.

You squirm – more on instinct than with the hope it’ll achieve anything – when you feel his cock at your slit. You’re dry, but a quick application of spit provides enough lubrication for him to force his way inside to the hilt.

“Open your fuckin’ mouth,” he says through gritted teeth, fingers clamping on your throat and causing your jaw to drop in search of air. He spits viciously onto your tongue before starting to thrust into you, the scrape of his cock against your unwilling pussy stinging sharply.

“Filthy little slut, ain’tcha?” His face is buried in your neck, hot breath on your ear, sharp teeth grazing your skin. “Such a fuckin’ whore for my cock.”

You whimper as his words ignite something in you – something you never want to understand or even acknowledge. Your pussy moistens, his thrusts meeting less and less resistance. Perhaps it’s automatic suggestion, or your body simply trying to make the experience less traumatic, but whatever it is, the pleasure you feel at his words sickens you.

“Don’t think I can’t feel that,” he says. “You love it. You love being fucked like the dirty cunt you are. Like a God-damn bitch in heat.”

His voice, so deep and virile, rumbles through your body like a roll of thunder, jarring your nerves and dragging a faint moan from your lips.

“That’s it, slut,” he gasps, hips slapping against your thighs, the sound raw and erotic in the small room. “Take it, take my cock. Your cunt’s mine now, gonna use you how I fuckin’ want…”

He’s almost tripping over the words, his thrusts becoming rougher, less even. You know he’s going to cum in you, going to mark you as his property again, and there’s nothing you can do about it. When his movement finally freezes, and you feel the warm gush of fluid inside you, you wince and turn your head aside in shame.

He wipes himself off on a rag and fastens up his pants again, adjusting the trucker cap that never once left his head. You don’t try to sit up, don’t even attempt an attack as he unlocks the door. You belong to Bo Sinclair now – he decides your fate.

“See ya later, honey,” he smirks down at you. “Don’t wait up.”

The door closes, leaving you in darkness. Curling into a ball on your side, you reach down between your legs and, using his cum as lubrication for your fingers, finish yourself off. As your orgasm washes over you, you try not to think of him – his voice, his hands, his face. Try not to fantasise about the man who has trapped you here.

You fail.


End file.
